When
I’m with you, darling, over time,
I
find I’ve no idea who “you” are
nor
the slightest notion of what
could
be meant by “me.” “Me” is like a flea
you
want to kill because it makes you itch.
Does
this somehow suggest a richly
necessary
mastery of self-forgetting –
part
of the logistics of becoming those
deep-diving
mystics we once breathlessly
professed
we yearned to be?
Perhaps
we’re where we wanted to arrive:
the
point from which we might derive
the
whole encompassing, encompassed
view:
the there of here, the here of there:
eternal,
ever rare and new.
But
I can’t breathe, can
you?
Wherever this is, there's no air.
.
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